Rings
by Taattosbt
Summary: Eleven facts about the Nazgul, their rings, and the connections between them. Continued in vignettes from each of the Nazgul's experiences during the Third Age. Rating for language in chapter 8.
1. The Facts

1) If he had to do it again, Angmar would accept his ring again. He would, however, stop Sauron from making the one ring. It was never worth it.

2) Khamul accepted Sauron for his ideals, but accepted his ring for the immortality. Sometimes he thinks of taking his ring off, but he will never give up on the ideals.

3) When Dwar put on his ring he felt utterly connected to his fellows. Like a wave in the ocean.

4) Ji Indur technically won his ring in a poker game. Sauron wanted to give it to him, but they were at a feast past midnight and Ji Indur thought it would be fun. It was.

5) Akorahil's ring is in the shape of the Great Eye. He sees it as a completion. Akorahil is blind, but sees through the veil. Sauron is an eye, but he can never see what is right in front of him.

6) The sapphire in Hoarmurath's ring is cold. It reminds him of home. He does not always want to be reminded.

7) Adunaphel's ring is an engagement ring. She has no wedding ring.

8) Ren tattooed a musical note on the knuckle just above his ring. It reminds him of what he is fighting for: the right to sing a different tune.

9) Uvatha does not understand why people say his ring makes him a slave. To him his ring is freedom. Forever on the back of a horse. And sometimes a fellbeast.

10) They all knew what they were doing.

11) None of them can think of a better group with whom to spend eternity.

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><p><em>Lord of the Rings<em> and all related material belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.


	2. Angmar - TA 1050

The sun tinted the sky as Angmar clawed his way out of the tomb.

It was a hard climb. It took much of his strength to break the granite. Then there was the iron grate. He rested before he tried it. He sat for he knew not how long, his back against the sarcophagus. He braced himself and pried the metal open. He rested again on the ledge overlooking the pit. Then there was the incline and a second grate.

He clung, panting, to the rock face. Despite the difficulty, every one of his actions held a certain wonder. They were, after all, things he never expected to do again.

He slid down the wall and waited. He had waited so long in the darkness. Most of the time he did not know what he was waiting for. Death forgot him. And Sauron was lost.

He remembered a millennia of nothing much. It was fading now like a dream in the daylight, but he remembered darkness and thinness in his being. It did not feel like a millennia at the time. It didn't really feel like anything. Just quiet and calm.

It took him a few minutes to realize the darkness had changed. It had substance. It was actual darkness, not nothing. And rather than floating infinitely he was confined in a very small body in a very small space.

Angmar looked down at his body. All he could maintain was his human form. He looked as he did when he first took the ring. But now there was dust on his face and cuts on his hands. He had no finery now. Only the dark cloak buried with him preserved his modesty. And his ring, of course.

He felt so limited. So overwhelmed. There were so many sensations. The air cold in his lungs, his hair moving in the breeze, the sounds of some birds nesting in a crag above him.

Most of all he felt small. He looked out over mountains, and forests, and rivers, and lakes. The whole world stretched out in front of him. He was just one man huddled on a rock face. And the sun was rising.

The sun was warm, and that was nice. But the sun held him back from his preferred form. He wanted to be a wraith. It would certainly make getting down from his prison easier. The world and the sun had other plans.

He settled down to wait for sunset.

He heard Khamul before he saw him. The other man clambered out of the tomb and sat beside Angmar. Khamul leaned against him, catching his breath. They watched as the world woke up.

The sun touched more and more, revealing a map Angmar remembered well. At various times his life had centered on this nation or that fortress. There was the Anduin. Then the Greenwood. It looked different, but maybe he was remembering incorrectly. Following the river, further south there was Lorien. Rohan's rolling hills. Then more mountains. His favorite mountains.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Khamul looking in the same direction. South-east.

Khamul reached over and gripped Angmar's left hand tight. That was one sensation he could deal with. Angmar's ring glinted in the sun as he added to their small connection. When they were wraiths they could feel, sometimes even think as one. But for the moment this was enough. Together they looked across the vast at Cirith Gorgor and the Morannon.

The first sentence Angmar spoke in one-thousand and fifty-two years was: "We're going home."

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><p><em>Lord of the Rings<em> and all related material belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.

A reviewer and several follows/favorites have encouraged me to continue this story. There will be one short chapter for each of the wraiths, each showing a moment in their lives during the Third Age. If you have ideas, suggestions, requests, etc. I would love to hear them.

Thank you all and I hope you enjoy.

Sincerely,

Taattosbt

P.S.

I am aware that Peter Jackson invented the business with the tombs. However, I like the idea of such a traumatic return from the shadows. Indulge me if you will.


	3. Khamul - TA 3018

The farmer had mushrooms on the fire. That much Khamul could smell. He'd stepped outside to get more wood when Khamul rode up. The man's dog began barking but cowered in the door whimpering as the black breath hit it. The farmer retreated as well, letting his axe fall from his hand.

Asking directions certainly was a hassle in his wraith form. Rather than make the man wait while he translated a whole question into Westron, Khamul rasped out, "Shire. Baggins." It might be the common language of half the world, but he came from the other half.

"Th-there's no Bagginses 'round here." The farmer stuttered. "They're up in Hobbiton."

Khamul waited. This was the edge of the map. Nothing of interest strategically. How was he supposed to know where—or for that matter what—Hobbiton was?

The man extended a shaking finger, "That way." Then he fled inside to join the dog.

Khamul spurred on his horse.

A mile down the road he could still smell the mushrooms. Or at least remember the smell vividly. It reminded him of the curries of his homeland. He would have added a pinch of mustard and some coconut, but the farmer was on track with the peas and onions.

Strictly speaking he did not need to eat, but it was fun. From time to time he and Hoarmuth would revert to their bodies and eat a meal together. Eventually it became a game. Each would bring a dish from their homeland. Then they would sit down, eat, and compare them. In Khamul's opinion the similarities outweighed the differences. When you got right down to it cooking was just some ingredients and heat applied in various ways. And the ingredients weren't really all that different from culture to culture.

And yet everyone described the world as the West and the East. The dark and the light.

That was where they got the idea for the cloaks. The cards were on the table. Angmar, Adunaphel, and Akorahil had finally stopped pretending to be loyal Numenoreans. How they managed to fool people as long as they did was a mystery. Now all nine of them could stand together for the first time.

Ji Indur suggested it. He always had a flair for the dramatic. Everyone said they were servants of darkness so why not go all out? Sauron taught them how to shift their forms early. They were going to have to do it when their physical bodies died, anyway. Always thinking centuries ahead. Khamul liked that about his master. No matter what happened Sauron had a plan. And he always had their backs.

In any case, they all agreed on black. It took some cajoling. Adunaphel wanted red (her favorite color), and Dwar wanted blue (which was his). Akorahil wouldn't vote through pure lack of interest. Color did not translate when one looked through the veil, and his human form couldn't see it either. Indur stood his ground. He did not often set his mind on things—he was a carefree sort—but when he did they happened.

And that was how their imposing uniforms came to be. Not for any practical reason, simply a commentary on oppressive binaries. And that is what it was all about, wasn't it? Long, long ago a choir demanded perfect harmony, but one tenor wouldn't stop whistling his own tune.

Now the black armor, cloaks, and horses scared everyone they came near half to death. Well, those and the black breath. Most people did not register he social commentary. Khamul often forgot it himself. It was easy to think of the other side as totally alien. Things rather than people. It was easy to enjoy that farmer's fear. That was when his cloak came in handy.

It reminded him of why he took up his ring. When all he wanted to do was rain death and destruction upon those who done him wrong—those who had done Sauron wrong—it reminded him of the wrongs he had done in his time. It reminded him that the East and the West were more connected than divided. Not two worlds but one.

After all, that farmer and he shared at least one skill: they both knew how to cook mushrooms.

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><p><em>Lord of the Rings<em> and all related material belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.

Many thanks to fantasychica37 and everyone else who reviewed for encouraging me to update so soon.

Thank you for the review, anon. I think I was the only person in the theater to think "Yes! That's brilliant!" during the Nazgul's tomb scene. I understand the complaint that it is blatantly not canon, but I'm a sucker for details on all things Mordorian. Canonical and non-canonical alike. Anyway, I'm glad this story made it a hair more bearable for you. Thank you again. - Taattosbt


	4. Dwar - TA 2941

The warg heaved under Dwar's hand. Her breath was hot on his knee. She tossed her head in his lap, her eyes squeezed shut. He cooed to her as he drew his hand down her side.

"Good girl. That's my girl." Ghash murmured from her position between the wolf's legs. She too had a hand in her coat, still and careful not to catch the spines.

Dwar glanced down. Four pups already. They were nearing the end.

The wolf lifted her head and licked her newborns. The contractions hit again and she threw herself back onto Dwar's thigh. He was ready with comfort.

"Good girl. That's it." Ghash petted the warg. "Come on. If I can do it you can do it." Her face lit up and she moved her hands to catch the next pup. "Yes. Good girl."

"I didn't know you had children." Dwar smiled down at the captain. He used to pride himself on knowing all about his warg riders, but there were so many now. And he was older than he was an age ago.

She nodded, "A son."

"How old?"

"Six." She looked down at the warg again. "Good girl. Is that all?" Ghash ran her hand over the warg's belly. "It feels like that's all."

As if in answer the warg shook herself. She swung her head down and licked at the puppies again as they crawled to her teets.

Dwar sat back. "Is he looking forward to the puppies?"

"So very much." Ghash stood. She gathered a pitcher and a bowl and settled herself in, for lack of a better term, the window. Really it was just a missing wall that overlooked Mirkwood. Dol Guldur still needed work. In the meantime the crumbling fortress offered spectacular views. Ghash washed the blood from her hands. The dying sun streamed into the tower. It glowed on her blue skin and reflected gold off the water. "He wants to raise one as a mount. He keeps saying he'll follow me into the cavalry when he grows up. "

Dwar patted the warg one last time. She was more interested in her litter, so he went to join Ghash. "What do you think?"

She passed the bowl to him. "I think there'll be fewer arrows aimed at him if he follows his father." Dwar looked up from cleaning his hands. "Med corps." Ghash explained.

"Doctors." Dwar smiled. "The pride of every parent." He dried his hands on his cloak. His ring tugged at the loose threads. Angmar would disapprove, but Dwar was never one to value decorum over utility. Besides, blood was blood. It mattered little whether it came from a battle or a birth.

Ghash laughed. "Well, he's young. Dreams change. You never know where life is going." She sighed. "And if I do my job right, by the time he grows up, there won't be a need for warg riders."

Dwar nodded. "That is the hope." Sometimes he forgot that everyone was looking for peace. The disagreement stemmed from who should rule it.

"General?" Ghash spoke softly. "May I ask a question?"

Dwar nodded.

"What did your parents hope for you?"

Dwar's breath fell from him in an uneven chuckle. "Morgoth. I can barely remember." He leaned back. His ring clinked against the stone floor when his hand took his weight. He glanced back at it. "They certainly never imagined this. They were fishermen—I was a fisherman." He corrected himself. Dwar's lips twitched in bemusement. "Then I was a pirate for a while."

Ghash's brows shot clear to her hair line. "You never do know." She sat straighter and looked him in the eye. "Forgive me if I overstep my bounds, but I think they would be proud. I would be proud."

Dwar sat forward again. He looked down at his hands. "No presumption at all." He thought for a moment more, then turned to her and added, "Thank you."

Ghash stood. She came to attention and saluted him. "Thank you for your help, sir." She relaxed. "I have dinner and a very excited son waiting for me. Good evening."

"Good evening, Captain." He looked back over Mirkwood. Just as Ghash was about to leave he called back to her, "And congratulations."

She dipped her head and left.

Dwar drooped his shoulders forward, his legs dangling over the tree tops below. Some stable hands would be in soon to look after the new mother. In the meantime he enjoyed the quite contentment of the room.

The sun was sinking into the trees. He felt stronger in anticipation of the night. Yet, the sunset was beautiful enough that he wished it to linger. The sky was, of course brilliant, but what held his attention was the trees. Mirkwood rolled in peaks and shadows almost to the horizon. The trees crested in light and dove into shadow. Time and again a capricious breeze would whisper through the leaves, causing the forest to shiver.

In this light, the trees looked like the ocean of his home.

He let his mind wander. And wander. And wander. Out further and further. His body faded, and the darkness beneath his cloak thickened. He floated half way between a man and a wraith.

The warg snorted and curled herself around her puppies. He was chilling the room. Dwar edged away from her and shaped his aura around her as best he could. Satisfied, she licked at her whelps once more.

Dwar turned his thoughts to his comrades. He felt them scattered across the world. Like pinprick stars in the night sky.

Angmar was one tower over. He was so close Dwar could almost hear him thinking and muttering over maps and troop reports and supply lists. Or maybe it was an educated guess based on centuries of fellowship. Agmar never wasted a moment. Workaholic, that one.

Adunaphel was the next closest. He expected to find her in Dol Guldur. He didn't. She was wandering far to the north. Close to Thranduil's holdings. What on earth was she doing there? Oh, well. Adunaphel was a wild one, but she always got the job done. Sometimes it did not get done according to plan, and sometimes it was not the job you asked for, but she always worked in Mordor's best interests. Even if Sauron did not agree with what she considered his best interests.

Khamul was halfway to the Morannon, enjoying the open road. He was in Rohan, so he best not enjoy it too much.

Ji Indur, Akorahil, Hoarmuth, Ren, and Uvatha were all in Barad-dûr. Their light was faint, but gathered as they were they shone strong. Dwar swept his eyes over the forest-ocean once more. The sun was gone, but the sky was pale blue. The forest was black. Each tree melted into the next. It was more an ocean than ever.

Images and memories flitted through his head, stirred by the evening's conversation. One in particular struck him: the light house on the cliffs over his home village. Now, on the pretend ocean, his fellows were that lighthouse.

He closed his eyes and sank into his sea.

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><p><em>Lord of the Rings<em> and all related material belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.


	5. Ji Indur - TA 2981

"Six! Six, easy."

Ji Indur clapped. "Alright, shooter."

"So how'd did you get it?" Murgash glanced over at the Nazgul.

For his part, Ji Indur was far more interested in the movement of chips across the sunken tabletop. "Press my six." He pushed a small pile to the dealer who dutifully added it to his place bet. "Get what?" He turned back to the uruk. Ji Indur leaned one elbow on the table's sill, face not quite placid enough to hide a smirk.

"I asked last roll." Murgash prodded. "You haven't forgotten. You're ducking."

"It was last roll."

Murgash rolled his eyes. They were grey. "It's a fast moving game."

The dice bounced off the far wall of the table. Six and four. "Ten. Ten easy." The dealer called.

Murgash grinned as the dealer counted out his winnings.

"I'm an old man." Ji Indur clapped a hand on his companion's shoulder in congratulations. "Indulge my forgetfulness."

"How'd you get your ring?" Murgash had both the courage and respect to face Ji Indur when he asked. It was why he was rising through the ranks so quickly. He was respectful yet unafraid of his superiors. It made him an excellent advisor. Ji Indur would miss working with him. Murgash turned away and placed two chips on the table. "On the come." He added a third. "And for yourself." The Dealer nodded his thanks and scooped up the tip.

"I don't know why you make that bet." Ji Indur murmured.

Murgash did not look at him this time. They both watched the shooter. "Once the roll's out it's got better odds than the place bets. And stop changing the subject."

"Alright." The nazgul surrendered. "Let me see this roll."

He could feel Murgash scowling next him.

The dice tumbled through the air.

"Six. Six easy." One and five.

"Yeah, shooter!" Indur clapped again. The dealer started counting out winnings with the farthest player from the general. Perhaps he wanted to hear the answer as well, the wraith mused. "I won it."

"Seriously?" Murgash glanced up from placing down two more chips. "Odds on my six."

"Seriously." Ji Indur nodded. "In poker." He raised an eyebrow. "You didn't think this vice of mine was new?"

"No."

"Does my obvious skill give it away?" Ji Indur mock preened.

Murgash chuckled. "No. Your ability to cash out at just the right time does."

Two and one. "Three. Three crap." The dealer interrupted them.

"Least it's not—" He never got to the word 'seven.'

"Don't say it." Murgash hit him on the arm.

He deserved it. Jinxing a game was too serious a matter to acknowledge rank.

"Drinks?" A waitress called as she hurried past. She was quite young. Half the table turned to look.

"Yes." Ji Indur flagged her down. "How much for a round Lake-town Red?"

The woman blinked in surprise. "I'll check with my tender." She pulled a quill from her loose bun of dreads and jotted his order down.

"Thank you." he nodded. The officers piped up with a chorus of no's. He waved off their courtesy. "You deserve it." He looked around at all of them, searching for the right compliment. He found it in their crow's feet and the grey hairs that snuck onto their heads since they first met. "600 hundred years to complete the first one and we finished in 30."

Murgash shook his head. "It's the foundations. And the outer bits aren't—"

"I don't care." Murgash also possessed the virtues of humility and practicality, but they were currently getting in the way of Ji Indur's celebration. So the whole city wasn't finished and they had a head start with the original foundations. What did it matter? They built the Barad-dûr standing that day. With the help of thousands of others. But these were the leaders. The designers, planners, and problem solvers. "Celebrate, by the Valar!"

The waitress caught his eye from the bar. She held up three fingers. Thirty in silver he assumed. He nodded at the price. He watched a moment longer as she and the tender placed wine glasses on a tray.

"Six. Six, hard." The roll snapped him out of his reverie. Three and three. Ji Indur's bet paid. Murgash's bet paid more. And one lucky Morgulian earned nine-to-one on his hard-way bet. Everyone cheered.

The wine arrived and they cheered some more.

Ji Indur placed a small purse on the waitress' tray.

As he laughed a long strand escaped from Murgash's plait. He tucked it behind his ear. "So, what's the matter? You've never heard of pai gow?"

Ji Indur cocked his head. What were they talking about? Ah yes, the fateful poker match. He nodded his head. Murgash was from far to the east. Almost all the way to Rhûn. Of course he'd know pai-gow. "Never mastered it." The nazgul was sheepish.

"I'll teach you sometime."

"Appreciate it." He truly did. The invitation was warm and Ji Indur liked new things. "Do you prefer it?"

"The way I see it, they made a version of our game. Not the other way around." Murgash held a hand to his heart in a mix reverence and self-deprecation.

Four and five. "Nine. Nine."

"All right shooter!" Murgash shouted this time as his general whooped beside him. The table roared. Making the point was always welcome news.

The dealers scurried to sort everyone out. Counting out and making change. Collecting the dice and moving the markers to off.

"What was the hand?" The uruk certainly was curious.

"What?" He stalled automatically. Normally Ji Indur preferred to get other people drunk and talking. It was an old defense mechanism. But he was with friends. "Oh. Four of a kind jacks to a pair of two's."

The orc screwed up his face in confusion. "Was he bluffing?"

"Yes and no." Ji Indur shrugged. "He wanted me to win." He thought a moment. "But he ended the game early because he wanted to go to bed." He couldn't remember if Sauron wanted sleep or if Adunaphel had pulled him away. He no longer kept track or rememebered the details of their on-again-off-again shenanigans. That nightmare of a tangle wasn't his kind of party. Either way, it was a simple desire that drew his lord from the table.

In truth they were all very simple people.

Everyone was.

The table waited with bated breath for the new point. Five and three. "Eight. Eight easy."

Odds were down in seconds. Eights had a good chance of coming up again.

Then the real fun began. The shooter rubbed the dice on the table, turned them, rubbed them again. A personal ritual to some unknown power. For a split second everyone at the table was a believer. He tossed.

Three and four.

"Seven. Seven out."

There was a communal groan. The dealers raked in all the chips on the table.

"Bets are off. New shooter." The head dealer gathered the old dice with his stick. He mixed them into the new pool and pushed it to Murgash.

Murgash reached down, then paused. His hand hovered over the dice. "What time was it?" he murmured

"Four in the morning." Ji Indur replied.

He selected two die. The rest were swept away. He turned each die until both showed two.

He tossed them.

* * *

><p><em>Lord of the Rings<em> and all related material belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.

Murgash and Ji Indur are playing craps. A quick internet search should give you any information you may want on the bets mentioned above.

Thank you, as always, for reading. Comments, complaints, and criticisms are always appreciated.


	6. Akhorahil - TA 2002

Akhôrahil walked by trailing his hand along the wall. He never liked reverting to his body. It felt vulnerable. But today he had a feeling. This was the form he was supposed to be take. It was a strange day to be embodied. It was not the best choice. He waited until after the battle to do it. No reason to relinquish his sight when it was most needed.

Now he wandered through Minas Ithil. They'd have to find a name for it. Patch it up a bit too. Rebuild a wall, clear out the debris, and move the bodies, of course. Clean up after the siege.

He lost himself in the city. Troops marched past him. From time to time an officer would recognize him and call out "general." Then the ground would crunch beneath the hailer's feet and Akhôrahil would imagine a salute.

Things moved a little slower now. He'd waited to walk through the streets until most of the looting was done. It was more civilized this way.

He wandered. He wanted to feel the city gates at some point. He'd felt them many years ago. They were indeed a work of art.

His feet led him to the gardens. He liked the Gondorian tradition of planting gardens around their houses of healing. It was beautiful. The air was heavy with hyacinth and he could hear the new leaves whispering against each other in the trees. He was alone. Nothing of average value in a hospital. The medical corps would come through later to catalogue and acquire the building's treasure.

There was a rustle behind him and to his right. Not the trees. Something in the bushes. Someone in the bushes.

"Good afternoon." Akhôrahil began. The someone in the bushes gave no answer. "I don't suppose you know where the city gates are?"

The bushes moved again. The grass bowed beneath the stranger's feet. They were smaller than an orc's. He smiled to himself. He was so aware in his human form. The awareness was underpinned with fear. For all the advantages of his altered sight, it required a certain vulnerability in his human form. Paranoia made up for the weakness.

The human still did not speak.

Akhôrahil motioned to his face. "You'll have to speak."

"Yes." The stranger was a man; definitely human; and quite frightened.

Akhôrahil felt it best to prompt him out of his trembling. "Yes, you know how to get to the gates?"

The man cleared his throat. "Yes."

"Excellent." Akhôrahil imagined that his smile gleamed, hopefully bright enough to be seen beneath his cloak. "Would you be so kind as to show me?" The wraith extended his arm.

Now was the moment of truth. Akhôrahil could moved fast, but with his side exposed and his sword hand stretched away from his blade it would not be fast enough. The man could stab him. Perhaps not kill him, but certainly do some damage.

A moment passed. Akhôrahil felt warm fingers on the crook of his elbow. He relaxed his arm and the man fell in beside him.

"My name is General Akhôrahil." The wraith murmured. The man knew what it meant. He had to. Akhôrahil wore his ring on his right hand. His right hand was quite visible at the moment, cradled a few inches below his elbow.

The man did not flinch. Instead he introduced himself. "Mardil Voronowё." His voice was quiet and horse, but there was steel in it.

Akhôrahil nodded.

Mardil led the way.

They strolled along, arm in arm. They passed several groups of Mordorian soldiers. The first few times Mardil would tighten his grip. Akhôrahil laid his free hand over the Gondorian's. The wraith would walk a little taller, daring anyone to challenge his companion. No one did.

They walked in silence.

'Voronowё' rang a bell. He couldn't remember exactly which bell. It was one of those important threads he saw in the universe when he wasn't exactly human. Yet he couldn't put his finger on it.

So he arranged to stumble. He remembered there was a step five blocks from the garden and he tripped on it. His hand ghosted over the Mardil's uniform. There was a tree and seven stars. No surprise there. The imprint was cool and metallic. He was an officer.

Oh.

Voronowё.

The heir to the current Steward. Quite a thread indeed.

Akhôrahil's breath hitched. Mardil righted him gently. "Are you alright?" The human began a conversation for the first time in their brief acquaintance.

"Fine. Thank you."

They continued. The city gates crept up on them.

"Did you know," Akhôrahil turned to the man beside him, "that I was here. Many years ago. I saw the gates, but I never got around to actually feeling them. You retook the city too quickly."

Mardil was confused. "You… saw them?"

Akhôrahil snorted. "Part of the complexities of being a Nazgul. Two bodies." Mardil was silent again. Akhôrahil guessed that he nodded. "Could you…bring me all the way to them?" The wraith continued. "I'd rather not stumble around." He shrugged.

He felt the Gondorian's hand move along his forearm. He placed Akhôrahil's hand on the carvings. "There."

Akhôrahil nodded. He reached out with his other hand. He felt legs, arms, faces. Row upon row of Gondorian heroes. He paused on a face. It was familiar, the angle of the jaw the sweep of his brows. "Who is this?"

Mardil took a step forward. "Tarannon the Barren." He said.

The wraith laughed again. "Come closer. Look at this." The man stepped forward again. He was just behind Akhôrahil now. "He" he jabbed at the carving, "looks exactly like Sauron. When he wears his fair face." He added. Mardil shifted. Akhôrahil explained. "When he's trying to persuade you."

It hadn't taken much persuasion in Akhôrahil's case. His sight was already going. Everything was blurring. There were shadows at the edges of his eyes. Two years after he took the ring he lost his sight completely. Fortunately, his newfound magic had quickly made up for his loss. Now he saw the world in a flickering landscape of light and figures half there and half not. And from time to time he felt the future. That was the best part.

Mardil leaned forward intrigued, "Truly?"

Akhôrahil nodded. "Truly." They stood for a while, one staring and one touching." The wraith sighed. "Let's address the oliphant in the room."

"I do not want to die."

"I do not want to kill you." Akhôrahil's hand left the statue to reach for his guide. Time lingered on, frozen. Then Mardil took his arm again. "I don't suppose you can ride a warg?" Akhôrahil nudged him.

"No." He may have imagined it, but Akhôrahil sensed that Mardil was indignant.

"Then you'll take my horse." The wraith declared. He heard an infantryman stir in the mouth of a nearby alley. "Soldier." He flagged him down. "Could you saddle Zaldi and bring him here?"

The orc's armor clanked as he came to attention. "Yes, sir."

"Thank you!" Akhôrahil called after him.

The man beside him spoke again. "Thank you."

"No need. You are important." Things were playing out. All around them. All the time. When he found something that needed to continue, he made sure it did. He got to look after the future.

The soldier brought his horse and the future Steward climbed atop it.

"Leave him when you get to the Anduin. He'll find his way home."

He felt the man staring down at him. "It's not your home."

"It is now." Akhôrahil replied.

Akhôrahil waited at the gate, listening to the horse gallop away.

"General?" The soldier's voice came over him from somewhere to his left. "Who was that?"

"A very important ancestor."

* * *

><p><em>Lord of the Rings<em> and all related material belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.

Thank you all, again, for your support.

From,

Taattosbt


	7. Hoarmurath - TA 3018

Hoarmurath could not move.

He knew he was thrashing. His arms flailed and his feet kicked out, but the water was unyielding. The Bruinen carried him where it would. He could not see through the waves. He could not hear through the roar. He did not know up from down, right from left. All was water. He was a speck on the plain of the river.

It ran through his ghostly body like needles. He was afraid they would stick. They would tear off bits of him and replace him. The needles would sting in his blood and his bones until he was nothing but water.

It terrified him.

He shifted bodies.

His robes dragged him down. Corporeal chains on a corporeal form. His legs tangled in the fabric as he struggled, which only made him struggle harder. Gone were the icy needles. They were replaced by fire in his lungs. It grew and grew into a conflagration that threatened to force its way out of his mouth and consume him. If he gave in the water would quench the flames and his life in an instant.

Outside the water tore at his skin. Silt and rocks, stirred on by the She-Elf's call, left his skin raw where they were merciful and bleeding where they were not.

Familiar panic gripped his chest. It echoed from the deep of a thousand years bringing memories from the north. From before his ring.

Hoarmurath had done this before. Held his breath and thrashed, sure that the water beating against him would be the last thing he felt. In another river, at another time, in another country, but it felt just the same.

He was fishing with his sister, Amurath, in the frozen River. There was only one in Urd, so everyone just called it River. The Bruinen and its brothers and sisters were still unknown to him. Amurath and he were young and stupid and the ice was thin. He fell through.

It felt like this. So cold it burned. Desperate to breath and fighting with everything in him not to. He knew which way was up, then. The current pushed and pulled him, but his hands or back pressing against the ceiling of ice assured him of where the air was and that he could not reach it.

He'd clawed then too. Beat and lashed at the ice with his fists. By some miracle he'd found a hole. Or broken through. Or somehow surfaced. Akhôrahil said some things were just meant to be. When destiny wants something Destiny gets it and we shouldn't mess around or ask too many questions. Hoarmurath took the advice to heart. His life began when he took up his ring. For him, the time before did not exist. He never went fishing. He never fell in. And he never crawled out to see Amurath standing on the shore, motionless, waiting for him to die.

After the coup he dropped her body in the River. No trace left, no relics and no hero worship. Just ice.

There was a jerk on his hood. Stronger than the water and distinctly against the current. He did not remember if he kicked with it or if all strength had left his body.

He did remember the air. The blessed air. Cool on his skin and soothing in his lungs. Life-giving everywhere. He curled in on himself and sucked it in. Air.

His memory picked up again on the banks of the Bruinen, not far from where it joined the Mitheithel (he learned that on the long walk home). He clung to Dendra Dwar's robe, his fingers twined with the rough fabric. Dwar supported his head and neck in his arms, while Hoarmurath's body lay across his legs and the rough sand of the river bank. Hoarmurath blinked, his closed eyes and the black fabric of Dwar's robe blurring together. "The Dark Marshal" some humans had once named Dwar. It was so forboding, so not Dwar.

Hoarmurath was acutely aware of the air rushing through his lungs. It felt solid, like fibers running through his throat. He was convinced that the water was still there, still waiting to take him away. He tugged at Dwar's robes all the harder. He could not die. He could not face Amurath yet.

At the edges of his conscious Dwar crooned, "It's alright. You're here. It's alright."

This was his family. His ring caught on a thread. This was life.

* * *

><p><em>Lord of the Rings<em> and all related material belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.

Thank you so very much, Guest, for pointing out my typos. Yay, minor dyslexia! In all seriousness, I am sorry for not noticing the flaw in Hoarmurath's name earlier. I hope you enjoyed the story in spite of my mistakes.

Thank you all for reading. I invite you again to comment. All critiques, compliments, and queries are welcome.

Here's to the nazgul!

From,

Taattosbt


	8. Adunaphel - TA 3018

Note: Adunaphel's language is quite vulgar. She is a woman in a difficult position, constantly vying for bravado points with some of the most powerful men in Middle Earth. As a result, she is a little rough and tumble.

* * *

><p>'So where are they headed?'<p>

That first question got Adunaphel in trouble. A month busting some shell-of-a-being out of Thranduil's dungeons and the first thing she did was step in the shit again. It was where she belonged, she supposed.

Overwhelming evidence for troop movement and they had no idea where Gondor was going. What the fuck? There was only a river in the way? What could be so hard? And yet there she was, sneaking across a ford—corporeal, cold, and incurring a hangover—to figure out where the hell those humans were headed.

She made it across no problem (save a head ache). Then there was the long trek back to Osgiliath. 'The other half,' as the troops liked to call it.

She played it crazy and begging. There were enough disturbed refugees in the ruins, too wrapped in their own minds to see the destruction around them. Her cloak lent itself well. It was faded and tattered, she didn't take nearly as much care of it as her brethren. "If only it had been red," she explained if anyone asked. No one had asked in a long time.

She found the supply tower, ducked in, rummaged for bit, and then found them. Green cloaks. A lot of green cloaks. A fuck ton of green cloaks. Ithilien.

She double checked the supply list to be sure. There they were. Several hundred camouflage uniforms all destined for Mordor's supply line to Harad.

Then the door creaked open.

She whirled, a cover already spilling from her lips, "I'm so sorry sir. I was searching for my uncle's body and I must…"

Three things registered very quickly. One, he had grey eyes and silver embossed tree on his leather cuirass. Two, he was staring at her left hand. Three, given one and two: he knew who she was.

And she knew who him. Grey eyes, light auburn hair, and the rank of captain. His name was Faramir.

Knowledge was power.

But right now he had a lot more of it.

She looked to her ring, flashing in the sharp light of a window. "You've read _The History of the Last Alliance._" She mentally added it to the list of books they know he'd read. She also chastised herself. She should have worked harder to destroy all copies of that damned book. It was too accurate. 'Silver band with a single, round-cut diamond setting, brilliant save for a red and yellow flaw center and to the left.' Fuck that author. Who was he? Corin Devrond. Fuck him and his info. She'd never figured out how he'd gotten such a close look. She wore her ring all the time, so she supposed anyone anywhere could have told him. Still, Corin could have stuck it where the sun don't shine rather than write it down for later generations.

Her ring was simple. The stone was expensive beyond words, but by her understanding it was forged along with the rest of the ring out of the primordial power of the universe. So she supposed it had never been on the market. She'd nearly slapped her suitor when he knelt and offered it. Who knows, she might have. They'd both had far too much that night to remember.

She remembered one thing: Sauron and her, sand between their toes and cups in hand, staring into a sunset they were sure they would rule one day. That day was yet to come.

The son of the steward brought her back to the present. "Are you the crazy one?" He asked.

"It's complicated." Flat. Final. From experience, tt was the best way to end such lines of questioning.

"Is it true?" He continued, "About your ring?"

She couldn't help but notice that he had not advanced any farther than the arch of the door. "Yes." She smiled. Welcoming. Just one more step and she could take care of the situation.

He did not take the bait. He was smart. "Where is the other one?"

It took her a moment to follow his train of thought. Other one?

Oh. Other ring.

He was asking about her marriage.

"Non-existent." She smiled again. A true joke this time, cutting through her breath like spring water through ice. "It was a good break. We weren't right." Indeed, even Ar-Pharazon was a better match, but she would never admit that to Sauron's face. They did not talk about him. Not since the night Adunaphel burnt down a tree to break them up.

She waited. Faramir waited too. She lost the unspoken conflict. "We met each other at a rough time in the others' life." She twisted the diamond on that oh-so-important finger. "It felt nice to have someone."

"Why do you stay?"

She only answered because he was curious. Genuinely curious. "He's my friend." She smiled at him through her lashes. "And I have an interesting relationship with authority. We could start a club."

"We're both going to be dead within the hour." He was cold. Colder.

Damn. He was better than she was.

"About that." She wheedled. Edging closer with each breath. "I see this going two ways. Option A: I kill you. Now—" She pointed to him, "you will die, but—" She shrugged, "you're fairly skilled so there's an 80… 85% chance that you'll raise an alarm—"

"At which point—" He picked up, "you will be captured and executed…" His gaze cast down for the first time, "…but not before taking many of us with you."

"I don't like option A."

"Agreed. What is option B?"

Her nostrils flared as she sucked in a breath. The air was so clear here. She wasn't sure she liked it. She'd gotten used to sulfur. "Option B:" She let out the breath, "we pretend we never saw each other. You go out the door. I go out the window. And we don't mention this to anyone."

He cocked his head. 'Are you serious,' his said physically. It was the most sarcastic she had ever seen a Gondorian.

It humanized him.

"I mean I might mention that you've read _Last Alliance_." She scuffed at a crack in the floor with one foot. "Add it to the list." It was under her breath.

And yet his next words were, "You keep a list?"

"You and your brother are very interesting." "We keep tabs on interesting people." 'I keep tabs on interesting people,' she mentally corrected. Her fellows were not as interested. Except for Akorahil. He paid attention, but he didn't like to interfere.

Knowledge was power. Knowing how much someone had could mean the difference between victory and defeat.

"I can't let you take that." He nodded to the supply summary.

She felt herself light up. "I don't need it." She spread her hands, "Already memorized the important bits. Good luck in Ithilien, by the way. " The wraith offered him the paper.

He took a step back, but only as far as the arch would allow. No chance of escape for her. "The cloaks?"

"Yes." She sighed. "It's an impressive amount of green fabric to gather in three months."

"Impressive, except you noticed." Faramir added.

"Not before this." She waved the paper. He grabbed it. She surrendered it. "It would've been a complete surprise. Probably still will be. "

He folded the parchment. "You can't move the troops in time, can you?" He tucked it away.

Adunaphel shook her head.

"I proffer option C."

Adunaphel looked upon the world again in utter shock. Had some layer lifted? Was her vision clearer? A Gondorian has just offered a Mordorian a compromise. Surely a new universe lay before her.

"We race for it." The heir said, simply.

"I take the window. You take the door." She lingered on the words, checking in with him for agreement.

"Yes." He nodded. The first time he'd taken his eyes from her. His guard was down in that fraction of a second. It was sloppy, but she allowed him his weakness. "If you make it to the river first, you win. If you don't make it…"

She picked up the sentence. "I languish in Minas Tirith's prison." She pulled an over dramatic grimace. Then wiped it away. He was right. It was the solution for everyone. "I'll take it."

"Three." He counted.

"Two." She counted down.

"Before you go." Faramir stopped the clock.

She gave him the evil eye. He was trying to throw her off. Again. Worse still, it worked. One moment she was tensed to jump, the next she was forced to shift her stance back to the room. It was jarring. And therefore brilliant. Why couldn't he work for her side?

"Why do you care so much?"

"Knowledge is power." She answered. "It's why you scare the shit out of me."

* * *

><p><em>Lord of the Rings<em> and all related material belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.

Thank you all for reading. I invite you again to comment. All critiques, compliments, and queries are welcome.


	9. Ren - TA 2954

Ren's skin was a blank canvas.

A canvas made blank by turpentine. Raw. Scarred. Bleached of its former beauty.

Something got lost on the way to the third age.

"The latter third age," Angmar would correct him. Technically they died in the early years of the third age. Ren disagreed. The third age began when they awoke on the barren mountain side.

Either way, there was a piece missing.

"It happens," Sauron assured him—in the shifting from this to that, the buffeting back and forth, the death and the life—sometimes things got lost. Not a limb or a head, mind you—nothing so important. Just small things. A birth mark here, a scar there. The problem was he wanted this scar. He'd chosen it, designed it, and endured it. It was a part of him.

It was an odd feeling. He had a scar marked by non-existence. A presence in an absence. Dendra Dwar told him to meditate on it. Uvatha teased him about it. Ultimately he decided to replace it.

A musical note in black. Dunûd[1] to be precise. It was a vertical line attached to a downward swoop lifting at the end and finishing with a square. It mark high-low-high tones. The birth, fall, and rise of a sound.

One day he mustered the courage. He barged into the first tattoo parlor he found in Gukh Goi[2]. The process was painful his first time. This, he did not internally admit his mission until he was already there. He meandered. He brushed up against this neighborhood and that before going straight to the bustling heart. Then there he was.

"May I help you?" The proprietor welcomed him. The orc was extraordinarily unremarkable. They were average in all things. Average of build. Average of age. And average of gender. Their long tunic hung loose on their body despite the sash at their waist. The yellow contrasted well with their navy skin.

They looked centered.

Ren's anxiety overcame the ripple of calm extended by the orc's words.

"Yes…" He hoped they could help. Was his request still possible? Had the technology changed? "Is it possible to tattoo the skin on the middle phalanx?" He lifted the bone in question.

The proprietor smiled, "Of course."

"I'd like a dunûd note." His host cocked their head in confusion. "A line; a thick, curved slash; and then another line with a little box on the end."

The proprietor returned to the counter to fetch a scrap of paper from the heap there. He scribbled. "This?"

"Yes." Ren nodded frantically. "Except, a little longer line at the beginning." He took to proffered charcoal and paper. There. "Perfect." He breathed.

The orc gestured for Ren to sit in one of two stools over a small table. They both sat. When Ren made no further movement, the proprietor took his hand and draped it on the table. "Black I presume?"

Ren nodded again.

They took up the needle. Clean. A good sign. He watched the tip disappear in ink.

He kept his finger from twitching as the point broke skin. It was a close call and he felt the repressed shudder in his lungs.

The proprietor increased his grip. "I've never seen one of you this nervous before."

"It is painful." Ren replied. And it was. Not unbearably so, but it stung and burned.

The orc chuckled. "I have seen one of you get whacked with a mace and shake it off like a bug bite."

"It's different."

They let the needle rest for a moment and looked up incredulous. "How?"

"I don't stick my hand out and ask someone to whack it with a mace. It just happens. It's a surprise." He winced as the needled dipped into him. "This isn't."

"Hm." Another tremor. "I suppose I've never thought of tattoos as painful." They adjusted again. Their fingers nudged his ring for the first time since the process began. They did it matter-of-factly—they couldn't work if Ren kept moving—but it must have taken courage. A miniscule pause was all that marked the event. "Uncomfortable, maybe, but…" They shrugged. "My father did this as well. Our family is Khandian…"

"Oh." It was rare, but there were a few orcish groups among the Variags. He scrambled to remember some detail. To keep talking. "You use—"

The proprietor smiled again. "Tattoos to mark military rank, yes." They re-inked the needle. "That's what my father did. I was helping him when I saw one of you knocked up-side the head." Ren breathed out as the stinging returned. "Was it you? Your hood was up."

"I don't know. I've been hit many times."

"Well—" another shift, "—while I've got the chance—" and the needle again, "—thank you." Ren stilled in confusion. The proprietor continued their work. "Not much a nine-year-old can do in an ambush."

Ren thought. "I do not know what to say." The truth was best.

They laughed. "To 'thank you?': 'You're welcome.'"

"But it is your life. Of course you should live." Ren moved his attention from his hand and the needle to the proprietor. All he could see was the top of their head. "It's not a 'welcome' thing. It's a given."

"Thank you, anyway."

"I am glad you are here."

The note was half way there before Ren surrendered his stillness again.

"Why the note?" The orc asked.

"Hm?"

"This design." They gently turned Ren's knuckle to get a better angle on his skin. "Why it?"

"I like music."

Music followed Ren throughout his life. Elyen, his wife, played the Kebero[3]. The rhythm filled their house like a pulse. Fyen and Fen, their daughter and son, danced along on unsteady small, unsteady legs. As they grew the children took up their own instruments. Fen followed his mother into the drum. Fyen preferred the lingering resonance of the Erhu[4], at the time a recent import from their north-eastern neighbor. Ren could not decide between them. He loved the racing songs of his wife and son at festivals, and he loved the sighs of his daughter's instrument carried on the breeze from the hillside where she practiced.

His new family, too, had music in its veins. If the story of the Ainulindalë[5] was to be believed, it was a song that broke the camel's back. According to this the world was made of sound. The idea was intoxicating. The whole world woven from a multitude of noises. Discordant, vibrant, and irrepressible. Morgoth sang in that primordial choir. That was the beginning of everything, both for the world and for the ideological line of Morgoth-Sauron-and the Nazgul. Song was the root of their lives.

He like music very much.

The proprietor bent to their task in silence.

Ren's response was terse. He did not mean to be. He simply did not know what to say. The proprietor seemed happy enough. Whenever Ren caught a glimpse of their face he saw a quiet triumph peeking through their concentration.

His finger had stopped twitching. They had only spoken to calm him. And it worked. The needle hurt less and the orc's work was easier.

They set the needle aside. "Faltor-ob Khlaarum[6] has evensong soon. I was going to close up shop. Would you join me?"

"Yes. Thank you."

* * *

><p>[1] Dunûd <em>– Porrectus<em>, a gregorian chant notation. It is also known as _flexus resupinus_. _Porrectus _(Latin) translates to "full length" or "stretched." Dunûd translates to "stretch."

[2] Gukh Goi – Mordorian for "Down town."

[3] Kebero – Ethiopian double headed drum commonly used in Orthodox Christian religious ceremonies.

[4] Erhu – Chinese, two-stringed bowed instrument.

[5] Ainulindalë - "Song of the Ainur." The first book of the Silmarillion and the creation story of Middle Earth.

[6] Faltor-ob Khlaarum – Mordorian meaning "Temple of the Sound."

* * *

><p><em>Lord of the Rings<em> and all related material belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.

Thank you all, again, for reading. I invite you again to comment. All critiques, compliments, and queries are welcome.


	10. Uvatha - TA 2941

Uvatha hit the ground hard. His palms bled and stung as the earth dug into them. The pain was a blessing, reminding him of his physical body. He changed forms.

He pressed his back into the tree trunk behind him. His chest sill heaved up and down, as a final remnant of the corporeal. He stilled it. Total stillness was only attainable in this form. He waited. And listened.

I was a simple mission. Talk to the Arachnids and convince them to keep to the south of the Old Forest Road.

"It will be difficult," Akhôrahil warned. "They are an independent people." Independent but allied politically and, more importantly, financially with Sauron and Mordor. The silk traded held the two cultures together as surely as the threads they trafficked in. Mordorian weavers used it for clothing, architects braided it together to make corded supports for bridges, and every doctor worth their salt stocked arachnid silk bandages. There was even demand for venom as a pesticide. Mordor's dry climate made farming hard enough without throwing in crop-devouring pests. In exchange for insects and game from far away lands the Arachnid colonies gave Mordor a portion of their bodily resources (a few of the Salticidae even traded for plants). Everyone was happy.

Everyone was happy until one colony crossed the Old Forest Road. "We're defensible enough," Angmar briefed him, "but there's no need to tip our hand early. Especially not to the Elves. A few more years of secrecy could go a long way."

All in all, the colony was a headache Mordor did not need. Controlling the Orcish factions was difficult enough. After a thousand years they grew used to autonomy. They disliked being told that this revenge or that vendetta must wait, or that the time was not right to pillage this or that settlement. Many listened, grudgingly. Others did not. The Arachnids just added fuel to the metaphorical fire.

"You'll like them." Akhôrahil promised Uvatha when he caught him sulking. "They are fun."

As usual, Akhôrahil was right. Uvatha was not a huge fans of forests. He preferred open plains with lots of sky. He loved riding back and forth between Dol Guldur and Barad-dûr. From the edge of Mirkwood all the way to the capitol were hills that rolled like the sea, mountains that lifted him to the sky, and magnificent lava fields. A guide met him at the outskirts of the communal web. He introduced himself as Avicul* and invited Uvatha to ascend to the heart of the web on his back. As soon as they began climbing Uvatha decided he liked the Arachnids.

Uvatha loved moving. He loved riding and running and traveling. As he clung to Avicul's back, Uvatha discovered a whole new kind of movement. From moment to moment they were sideways, then swinging, then upside down, then right side up again. Uvatha was thrilled.

When he hopped off of his host the web swayed beneath his weight. Uvatha threw his arms out to steady himself. He turned to stare as Avicul let out a chittering laugh. "It's used in your buildings too." He tapped the web lightly with a front leg. "It won't break."

Avicul led him to the back of the central chamber. The web tapered down from the cavernous entrance to a narrow point nestled in the crook of some branches.

Avicul pointed to a thread, "Pluck that one. It will call the family."

He did so.

And the came.

More than ever expected (Avicul whispered in his ear). Homemaker and hunter, docile and aggressive alike. Only enough were left behind to guard the web and the as yet unhatched egg sacs.

Then the debating began. Among squeaks and hisses, word and growls, the Studiosus formulated their wishes. Their opinions. And their demands.

"We have children" Some cried. "They are too weak to travel."

"We could carry them on our backs." One suggested.

"Only the infants." Another replied. "The adolescents are too heavy to carry and too young to survive the trip."

"Perhaps it is the price of safety."

"Safety!?" scoffed some of the hunters. "Do we not defend you well enough?"

"Seven of my children died in the last attack." A mother shouted.

"And eleven of us lived, mama." Her daughter added.

"What about why we left in the first place?"

"Yes! Yes!" a multi-throated cry, "What about the edict?"

Oh Morgoth. That headache. The Studiosus broke off in the first place due to a disagreement with their kin. In the interest of setting Mordor at ease, the other Arachnids had passed a law banning the consumption of sentient beings. 'No Orc-flesh for dinner' was the watchword of the day. The arachnids were paid handsomely for their hospitality. And enjoyed the protection of every being under the command of the dark lord.

"Mordor would prefer—" Uvatha broke through. He shouted to be heard over the tumult of the voice of this close-knit family—closer knit than even the fabric of the universe—.** "—That you agree not to use our citizens as food. Other nations are yours to define. Although," He hastily added before the hubbub began again, "Your cousins ask that you take the hostility of such nations into account."***

"So," Avicul came to his aid, "The elves would be fair game. But the dwarves would not."

A scout balked immediately, "But the dwarves are not a single nation."

"Furthermore," piped a belligerent voice, "they spilled our blood first. Why shouldn't we spill theirs? And make use of the corpses?"

"Exactly," Avicul spoke again, "We are exposed here. How many have died since we moved north? Uvatha offers protection."

"I agree." Uvatha could not keep count of the voices. So many. Such a colony. "The mammals have fangs. We should not hunt them."

"What of the children"!?

"Shall we at least take an initial vote?"

That was the last thing Uvatha heard before the chaos started.

An arrow skewered Avicul's head. He dropped like a stone. No twitches, just stillness.

That's when Uvatha jumped.

The blood and the pain reminded him to change and he pressed himself to the tree trunk. He pressed closer than any corporeal body. He pushed, and felt, and memorized the cracks along its surface. Anything to drown out the screaming.

No coming forward. No one could know. A few more years. That's all they needed.

And that had to drown out the dying.

It worked for a time. Then an Arachnid keened to his left. It was high pitched. A child.

He edged a glance around the trunk. Yes. She—he—was a child, pale and small. A Mammal was hacking into him—her—. They squealed. Once. Twice. So many times. Then, finally, the final gurgling breath.

Uvatha wished he could not see. Wished he could squeeze his eye shut and leave the horrid world behind. But he could not. Not while he was incorporeal. Everything was revealed in crystalline, black-and-white detail. He saw every slice.

Then Uvatha felt something he hand not felt in a long, long time.

It was a quiet call. Almost imperceptible—even in his all perceiving self.

He waited a while. He groped out to confirm the echo. Soft. Quiet. Comforting against all the screams.

Yes.

That was it.

Sauron.

Right next to him, yet so far away. Uvatha knew his lord-friend was so far away. Uvatha had walked every inch of the distance, and rode on Avicul's back.

Yet there he was. The presence tasted of fields, and towns, and the wide open world. All of Uvatha's favorite things. It was the road, winding its way through the Nazgul's being. The road that he loved; the life he loved. For they were one in the same. Road and life. Movement was everything. Moving from place to place. Watching it grow through the years. Contrasting it with other stops. Remembering it, forgetting it, and remembering it again. That was travel. That was the thread Uvatha left behind in his life.

Then it was gone. As quickly as it came the feeling was gone. Surely Uvatha had imagined it. His lord was far off in Dol Guldur. He could not be here too. Surely.

Uvatha waited.

When the Elves finally left and he shook the feeling off, Uvatha pushed himself off the tree and began the walk back to Dol Guldur.

*Derived from "avicularia," the spider genus that contains my favorite species, the avicularia versicolor. The spiders in this story are patterned on a communal spider species known as Anelosimus Studiosus.

**Hindu mythology contains the tale of Indra's net. Indra, head of the Vedic pantheon and god of rain and thunder, kept a tapestry in his home. The tapestry stretched infinitely in all directions. It was made of spider silk threads and at each juncture it held a drop of dew. Every drop of dew reflected every other drop of dew. And this was the basis of the universe. Every being was a shard of Heaven. And all the shards held an image of the whole within themselves. When you see a spider web remember: it is an example of the design of the universe.

***The author would like to acknowledge vore-fantasies. Those sentient beings willing to be eaten are welcome to the experience. No kink shaming here. Safe space.


	11. Epilogue - 1050

He felt them before he saw them. That was always the way. Even before the rings. It was a gut feeling that gathered these friends together. Time and again.

He took what form he could and went to meet them.

There they all were. As he rounded the corner of the stairs they looked up. All nine.

Angmar, puzzled over maps of Middle Earth with miniature enemies and allies scattered across them.

Khamul stood beside him. Pushing them about and moving them back as the two planned attacks and defenses.

Dwar leant against the lintel if the door. Sauron was not sure if he knew or not, but that was the closest wall to the Warg stable, twenty stories below. Dwar smiled, as always. He probably knew.

Ji Indur was halfway through the door. The fruits of his raid on the cellars was evident: beer in one hand, cheese, bread, and pickles in the other. More than enough to share.

Akhôrahil turned to the stairs as Sauron descended. He'd taken a post at the window to watch the sun sink below the trees of Mirkwood. Akhôrahil nudged Uvatha to look as well.

Hoarmurath glanced over from his place near Dwar. He too was by a window. It faced pure blue sky and emblazoned Hoarmurath in twilight-blue.

Adunaphel perched on central table. She considered pieces, occasionally asking Angmar a question. "How many were here?" or "Did we know more about this?" Her eyes strayed northward, to the challenge of the Greenwood elves.

Ren worried at his knuckle. He perused the parchments stretched across the table. He twisted his skin in time with the celebrations of the orcs far below. Sauron wondered if he knew.

Uvatha lit up at the sight of his lord. All the longing haunting him as he gazed upon the forest faded. He smiled.

Yes. They were all there. Home.

* * *

><p><em>Lord of the Rings<em> and all related material belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.


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